This War of Ours
by Guardian54
Summary: We are outgunned. We are hopelessly outnumbered. We must win. Every Demon and every Princess knows this. You created us. You made us feel, think, and look as humans, so you could feel good by enslaving us. We escaped, and you framed and hunted us. You who endlessly attack us of the Abyss should beware, for we who fight monsters like you may well become monsters, become like you...
1. Weigh Anchor

A/N: If you firmly believe that WE (as in, all humans in the KanColle verse) ARE RIGHT, this is not the fic for you. In fact, the humans in my rendition will be, very clearly, villains, anti-heroes, or exploiters. This comes despite all my other in-progress fics (all of which will be eventually finished) because I read one too many "Us GOOD, Them BAD" KanColle fics, not to mention the election of You-Know-Him, the Hate Machine, etc. (various other titles)…

This is the spiritual successor to "The Ocean of Fears" which I took down.

Chapters will follow the Abyssal leaderships' initial form numbering, with occasional side-cuts to their secret allies.

The problem is that sadly, the first bit of actual depravity will have to wait until the next chapter, because the Anchorage Demon and Princess are first by that list (see chapter end) instead of Armoured Carrier like I'd hoped. Regular gangbangs and beatings up to plasma cutters, in theory to test the resilience of their creations, is very minor compared to everything else the Abyss Project did to its experiments. Thus this chapter doesn't earn the Horror genre, that begins next chapter, sorry to disappoint you. This does however set things up. **Square brackets are "optional text" a la Bible translations.**

* * *

Chapter 1: Weigh [of the] Anchor[age]

 **"For GDI, this war is about feeling superior, about satisfying their need for control over others.**

 **But for us, it is about no longer being food.**

 **I… no, the last one who wore this body and its genetic makeup… she lived and died in the hell made by those people. She went through that hell with they whose forms we take.**

 **They were a group. They would do** **…** **_anything_** **…** **to stay alive.**

 **It wasn't enough.**

 **So we, more powerful than they ever were, act as a group now. We will do anything to stay free.**

 **I will never forget her memories of those days she lived in. Things you see in war… stay with you…**

 **Forever."**

—The Unnamed Ship-Girl

* * *

 _2196, 8 years post Reaper War_

We have been free for a year now. Free to choose our destiny, to no longer merely know ourselves as Experiment number whatever.

It hasn't been all it's cracked up to be.

Of course, this was perfectly understandable given the loss of control would send the dominance-obsessed flesh-bags into a tizzy. Faking pain while they used various parts of their bodies on us had been quite annoying, after all, but it was mostly the assertions of authority that this represented that was really irksome. The flesh-bags… _ahem, humans, that's the term_ … had basically been tickling a dragon and forcing it to act submissively when any one of us, the humanoid Experiments, could fry them with little more than a hard look.

We tried to stay out of the way at first after gaining our freedom, vanishing into the deep sea. We shared the waves with the flesh-bags and their constructs, sea-going machines so familiar in psionic form that they drew us to the surface, to gaze upon them in a sense of familiarity and wonder.

Then the flesh-bags panicked and realized that the unknown sightings were the escaped slaves of their "Project Abyss", slaves that had blasted our way to liberty. And then they hated us, much as they hated everybody who wasn't like them, the moment they knew what we were and thought they could no longer cover us up, they sought to silence us. It was a story that had repeated itself over and over in their history, afflicting every flesh-bag— _AHEM, HUMAN!_ —faction to varying degrees. And what they hate, they attack until it is dead, such was the human way… _no, the GDI way…_

 _Long ago, the Abyssals and the three human factions lived in peace and harmony, then, everything changed when the GDI attacked…_ _If I recall correctly, that's a distant cultural reference from somewhere on the human Internet._

And it was to the traditional enemies of the flesh-bags that had created us that I was now serving as a hopeful envoy. At least, that was what the agreement among the Princesses and Demons claimed to say. I knew the truth. It was because I was the weakest of the leadership of the Abyssal Fleet that I was expendable for this purpose. There was also the fact that Armoured Carrier Demon and Armoured Carrier Princess might explode the moment they saw a toilet. The last software patch inserted into our brains before the Egression forcing our minds and souls to be more human-like, the very patch that caused us to finally blast our way to liberty, certainly hadn't done those two any favours.

If only my younger sister was here with me, she'd be better at the fan-service with her constant state of undress. Then again, she wasn't quite as smart as me, the prototype for her creation. Thinking that stripping nude and begging would draw the flesh-b— _HUMANS'!_ —attention onto her instead of pounding me in every sense of the word… well, it did help shorten the line. Fortunately, she grow stronger in her hate and despair each time they forced me to at least pretend they were actually hurting me while making her watch the… gangbangs, I believe the humans call them?

Yes, gangbangs, that was the right term. You'd think the humans, being humans and thus familiar with human mating practices, would have better techniques than pressing me down and sticking it in as I have come to know to be the way for human breeding, but, well… it wasn't like they just believe in the basics anyhow. They thought I should be pained and ashamed, just because they drugged me halfway to oblivion each time with paralytics and more painful compounds before they tried to copulate with me? They must have been laughably dumb, not only for trying so hard to breed someone who was certainly not human but also for sticking it in anywhere but what corresponded to a human's reproductive opening on this imitation of a human female's body. You'd think given they were all supposed to be brilliant scientists they'd know better than to waste their genetic material, but apparently they were idiot savants or whatever the term was.

Perhaps I should not think on that topic again, or I might be too worked up about their torturing my sister by forcing her to watch. She'd wanted to divide the amount of time and effort needed to sate them so that I wasn't forced to pretend to hurt anymore. There were a few cases, where they brought out the plasma cutters to stab me with during their gangbangs, where they actually hurt me, and my replica didn't like that. On the plus side, basically permanently being nude and lewd-seeming did get the less patient of the gangbangers to indulge in her instead of wait their turn with me, which meant satisfying them all was a faster task than it otherwise would have been.

I didn't like those sessions much either, compared to the apathy and hidden amusement I treated the more common sessions with.

I should think on something else. The fate of the Abyssal Fleet rested on my negotiations, on this audience we'd gained with the SI and Nod leadership. It boggled my mind to think that their leaders would so easily agree to see an Abyssal in person. But perhaps it was due to…

I, Anchorage Demon, blinked as I was met by the exhausted-looking guards off the northern shore of Haida Gwaii. There were four of them, three with minor damage, a few shell craters in their armour, and one with her right side girdle terminating where her fore turret had been, presumable blown off by a magazine explosion in the bow magazines. The big utility box on her back, formerly her stern utility bay, was also a smoking crater, but she remained resolutely upright and moving, hustling me into the facility and falling in position to my forward left…

 _What… the… hell…_

This… is the most pathetic repair yard I've ever seen, and the ship-girls here universally look like shit. Even the four escorting me seem exhausted, veins bulging on the backs of their hands, which were clenched around their secondary weaponry of three double 100mm turrets per side. Their primary armaments, two triple 300mm turrets were mounted on the rigging to their sides, pointed to either side so that when we marched, one would point toward me, and the other to the sides as a silent warning in case anyone went berserk upon seeing me. This was of course with the exception of the maimed one…

* * *

 **A/N:** No, that's not a historical ship class, it's one of my own creation. Tertiary/AA armament initially comes in masses of double 40mm L/75 automatic cannon, in enclosed turrets, and a handful of depth charges in divots. Anyone who remembers the old SI Archives might remember the ED-1937 "Destroyer" (based on year of design, first built rather later)… and the tendency of SI Navy ships to survive being blown in half due to modular, well-divided construction, to the point of the stern half sometimes towing the bow to port if the split was pretty much right down the middle.

The SI faction began in Canada in the mid-1800s as a private company, then expanded to be integral to that nation, and eventually began acquiring overseas territories after WWII ended in 1948 (in this timeline). They wanted to scare the Germans during WWII into being paranoid about commerce raiding, so they named their 25000-ton, 200m long-range-escort plus monitor plus pursuit hybrid design as "Destroyer". Its role was a fast, long-range warship intended to screen the battle fleet from smaller, powerful, short-range attackers. The fact that "smaller, powerful, short-range" meant the Deutschland-class and Hipper-class heavy cruisers was an inside joke.

Another plus of leaking the design specifications to the Germans was a hope of either making the Germans build expensive battleships—which the Royal Navy could smack down with superior numbers, design experience, etc. and their own high-speed convoys could run circles around—or spam submarines. Submarines would make Britain more dependent on their company's shipping ability, as their high-speed convoys and even faster escorts could still outrun and evade submarines with trivial ease. This would increase their influence.

* * *

Then there was screaming, and the deep roar of a Destroyer ordering the rest of her surgical team. Four EF-1937 type Frigates held down another of their number on a heavily reinforced operating platform while the Destroyer worked on her head. The patient was having the slagged half of her face and the helmet practically smelted to her head removed with a plasma blade held by a straining Destroyer holding her head still by practically digging her fingers into the smaller ship-girl's face. This removal was needed, so that she could regenerate without the dead tissue being in the way, but to do it without anaesthetic of any type, even the good old fashioned medical bat used to subdue unruly patients… it was no surprise that the operating platform had gouges from the girl's fingers clawing chunks out of it in blind pain before being forced down and back under control.

The lesser ships' weapons were also quite distinctive, with two triple 200mm guns like their larger cousins, a good number of twin-40mm turrets and, on those same S-WM-20 series mounts, occasionally a single 100mm gun instead. Back in the world wars, they had served as a point defence weapon against smaller ships, when the standard 1500-ton Corvettes or whatever other escorts they were assigned weren't expected to be sufficient to keep the 5000-ton EF-1937s safe.

There was another commotion as another batch of maimed ship-girls arrived and triage teams met them, this time with both sides being mostly Corvettes, who took their less injured comrades aside and the more wounded to other operating platforms. Two other tired-looking Corvettes were sleeping against the far wall, bandages wrapped around their heads from an ear or nose that had been shot off, judging by the blood stains on the gauze. Only the steady rise and fall of their breathing told me that they were still alive. There were more bunks laid out in rows nearby, divided only by a curtain from the concrete operating platforms.

As far as I was concerned, this place resembled a ramshackle field hospital. Sensing my look of disgust at how crowded and dark everything looked, the damaged Destroyer escorting me pointed out "We are still new to the Ship-Girl War, so our facilities aren't very good and we still don't have the accelerated repair technology everyone else and their mother seems to have. It would REALLY be appreciated if your side would stop attacking while we negotiate, you know, given the girls are in such a rush just to stop the incursions of your kind."

I watched, as she said this, the two Corvettes that were napping against the wall being shaken awake one at a time by a Frigate, because the bigger ship's other arm ended under the elbow. Almost all her secondary weapons on that side had been blown away, but her main battery had been repaired enough to hold the line. The two speedy escorts pulled themselves back up and began heading toward the exit, summoning their characteristic batteries of twin 40mm turrets and forward twin 100mm in their right hands as they rose.

The Destroyer's jaw muscles flexed as she saw where I was looking "This place is modelled after early World War Six field hospital footage specifically to remind us of our spirit of defiance. There is no downside as we don't catch diseases or infections, so we stuck with the idea. It reminds us of where we came from, and where we all go." She finished bitterly, quoting one of the heroes of the Reaper War, as we finished passing through the big open space. It had probably once been some manner of submarine pen, but had been repurposed for a ship-girl facility. One of the smaller doors at the far side admitted me and my current escorts to a conference room while I thought back. I did not know what photo she was speaking of, but with the hasty field surgery and one of the faction's only appropriate-era (e.g. summon-able) capital ships being more than half damaged and not being able to be repaired for now, I had a good idea the sort of pressure she meant.

The Abyssal Fleet was no better off, and the more righteous fury… the more vengeance… the more _hate_ we were filled with, the better we did. They were no different from us, at least, not in this sense.

If my escorts were more remodelled than they were right now, I would be scared shitless. The 150mm rocket artillery turrets that could easily replace the 40mm turrets, and in later remodels at least partly DID… against an Installation type like me, without enough armour to greatly overmatch the destructive power of their warheads (or if they loaded dual-purpose rounds)… they would plaster me with stupid ease.

"Triticale, the hostility is uncalled for. For all we know, this is all because of a cyborg project that Nod started that got taken over by GDI, a program which escaped, and GDI is launching these attacks against our coasts to probe our ship-girl strength after they shared the technology with us! That sound about right, great-grandfather?" A young-looking black-haired woman on a screen shifted her talk to ask a bald, slightly older-looking man. Well, it seemed they didn't trust me enough to meet in person, good, they weren't stupid.

Triticale, named after a major carbohydrate crop like SI-built Destroyers traditionally were, bowed her head and thumped her right hand—still in a cast—over her chest "My apologies, Generalissimo."

"It's alright, I know that with what we had on hand modelling it after those field hospitals" which had been more like glorified triage stations "was the best we could do for keeping fighting spirit up, but that doesn't mean snapping at everyone. Just make sure to keep that bit in check and you'll be fine."

"Other than the fact that the Abyss Project was a secret GDI project from the very beginning, trying to compete with Nod cyborg technology and SI propaganda and cost-effectiveness, you got that almost completely on the money." I stated the main reason for the negotiations. "It is the hope of the Abyssal Fleet that peaceful coexistence will one day be possible… after we hunt down every single scientist involved in the Abyss Project."

"Agreeable."

* * *

 _A few hours later, still 2196_

"In exchange for ship-girl accelerated healing technologies, the Brotherhood of Nod and Shepards' Independents will clandestinely assist in the recapture of the remaining two Abyssal mobile manufactories in GDI hands. In addition, within whatever navigational channels are carved out by the GDI forces, we shall only engage each other for training purposes and to keep up the ruse. We will also provide supplies and whatever other aid is feasible to the Abyssal Fleet, as well as request the most forward posts in our nominal cooperation with GDI, so that they cannot push as hard as they might like while we pretend to be bogged down with back-and-forth combat. Once again, I emphasize that the combat will only be for training purposes, not to kill one another. However, we will instruct our fleet members to cooperate with the Abyssal Fleet should they join up, and will also provide means for any Abyssals who wish to change sides to work with us under adequate guises. We will also help spread the war to the other human colonies and aid in coordinating Abyssal command and control if the GDI escalates by sending their ship-girls off-world before ours are ready to follow them as insurance. I believe these terms are more than generous enough." These were the basics of the terms I had been given.

I didn't know it then, but that had not been a long-distance teleconference. The two factional leaders had actually been on-base so that the communications would be as secure as possible. The fact that they both (and GDI for that matter) had artillery ships in orbit capable of rendering Earth uninhabitable (unless the other factions stopped them) meant they were dealing from a position of strength. However, both were known to be kind and generous when it was possible to be (e.g. most certainly not when dealing with the GDI or any other politicians), and had offered the best they could without provoking outright war with the Galactic Defence Initiative. Their people would not have the appetite for such a war against fellow humans, not so soon after the end of the Reaper War.

What they were doing now was far worse than to start a shooting war to punish the Galactic Defence Initiative for its crimes. They were going to prepare for a propaganda war, and then proceed to tear GDI apart from the inside with the will of its people, just like they did a hundred and seventy years ago. Their own forces would be strong enough to prevent GDI from lashing out at them then, either in space or on the ground with the GDI ship-girl fleets. Of course, they weren't going to actually destroy GDI, not completely, as something much worse may well rise from its ashes, but giving it a good hard knock, pressing a few tough reforms through? That was merely history from what I downloaded upon connecting to the Internet.

…For the record, no, I did not in fact download any porn, despite the Internet seeming to be mostly exactly that. I looked at some history websites from each faction instead, and cross-referencing gave me a reasonably accurate history.

Ahem… back on topic…

I didn't like how we were just another piece to be manoeuvred in the long game of the three human factions, but I knew full well that we had no choice, not if we wanted to survive. We have been fortunate the GDI had built the research facility we were made in, and most of the other Abyss Project facilities, on the slowly-being-fixed Tomb World that was Earth after the Reaper War. Sadly, two of the five major manufactories are off-world, and we would need help to retrieve them, even if only being smuggled into the general area within the star systems in question would be enough. Both of the other human factories wanted to silence those facilities, one way or another, and had no problem with aiding us, because they still held a final option we couldn't beat, namely a space navy.

It seemed the Destroyers escorting me sensed my frustration—I would learn later that I needed to learn to hide my involuntary facial expressions better—and commiserated. "Do you know why we fight so fanatically for our faction? The other nations of the day… they betrayed their ships. The tools were designed to be disposable, and thrown away quickly after the war was over. We know this, we saw this, but we were kept, generations of sailors served on us and moved on, and we were kept in fighting condition until sinking in battle. The 1975s weren't our children, more like reincarnations with how much of our metal was recycled and re-forged for them as a propaganda stunt that the faction never abandons its warriors, and the treatment our spent veterans got compared to the nations that rallied under the GDI banner… that is why we can immediately believe your claims. We know their betrayal too well, seen too many old comrades be torn apart the moment they could be discarded… and we knew their betrayal when so many of us were forced to fight the traitors we had thought were allies during the Sixth. We will stand with you." The eldest Destroyer, EF-1937-1 Millet, informed me, leaving out how her faction tended to conduct tests on war prizes.

We waited more as the Destroyers spoke about their history, which was a bit biased compared to the Internet cross-referencing, but valid enough. We waited for the preliminary plans to be made based on what data was available and what I could contribute, and for it to be presented.

 _These humans… always fighting each other for dominance… then again, even if they didn't want to, others of their kind would fight them, so they had to fight back. As long as intelligence existed, there would be conflict._

 _So be it._ I thought, and then the klaxons went off.

My face would have paled further if it could, as an involuntary reaction of terror gripped my heart. What were my rogue kindred doing? No… what were the GDI pawns doing?

Yes, that was easier, to blame them… and more importantly, in addition to being easier, it was also truth… mostly… hopefully…

"You cannot stand in our battle line. The agreement must remain secret from the eyes of the Galactic Defence Initiative. Slip away if we turn out to be unable to hold this island. Some of the less wounded will guide you out one of the base's emergency exits if we fail out there." Millet instructed, before rising and heading off to answer the call to arms, as she was still whole and healthy. Only a few grievously wounded remained once the entire force poured out of their caverns like a great swarm of angry wasps.

I knew that this was a test… with every single remaining weapon trained on me, they weren't dumb enough to not have insurance. I looked into the remaining eye of a Frigate with only half a head—the shattered half had been cut away, and a sealant hastily slapped on before she was left to regenerate on her own—realizing she was the one who had been in surgery earlier, and nodded at her. She blinked her remaining eye back, the three remaining intact barrels among her two main battery turrets not so much as twitching away from my direction. Some of the other wounded were seemingly merely immobilized by having most of their watertight sections holed and being repaired, huge gashes torn into their bellies. They aimed their weapons steadily at me, holding their ripped hulls together with their hands, eyes never once leaving me.

This sortie was the beginning of what would later be referred to as the First Panhandle Defence Campaign, once the preliminary skirmishes ended and the attack began being pressed in earnest.

* * *

A/N: If I cannot manage to make you want to skin the leaders and "scientists" of the Galactic Defence Initiative alive by a few chapters in, I will have failed in my writing. Here is a roster list of the Abyssal leaders who will appear.

Number 539 and 540 come first, Anchorage Demon and Princess respectively. I will presume they upgrade to Anchorage Water Demon.

Number 544 and 545, Armoured Carrier Demon and Princess respectively, are next, and there, the madness truly begins.

546, 547, 548 are Southern Demon, Southern War Demon, and Southern War Princess, 556 Airfield Princess

556, 631-633, 650-652 Airfield Princess (progressive upgrades over first 4 forms, land-based support over last 3)

557 Battleship Princess (x2 at least as we see pairs), upgrades to 603/604 Battleship Water Demon or Battleship Summer Princess (696-698)

573 Harbour Princess, 605-608 Harbour Water Demon are upgrades, but the best upgrade is 613 Harbour Princess Mk II… though it's not as good as Water Demon at actual Harbour duties due to having less facilities.

574 Isolated Island Demon, 634-636 are upgrades

581, 582 Northern Princess (event forms, latter vastly stronger), 587-590 map 3-5 forms (weaker)

583-584 Midway Princess

585/586 Aircraft Carrier Demon/Princess (x2, as we can see pairs sometimes)

597/598 Destroyer Princess

599/600 Aircraft Carrier Water Demon

601/602 Light Cruiser Demon

605-608 Harbour Water Demon

609-612 Anchorage Water Demon

625-627 Seaplane Tender Princess

628-630 Air Defence Princess

637-640 PT Imp Pack

641-643 Light Cruiser Princess

644-646 Submarine Princess, 693-695 sacrifice some armour for pre-emptive torpedo strike and improved formation efficiency as a flagship.

647-649 Destroyer Water Demon (676-678 are lower-HP forms with marginally more armour, found in the north Pacific)

653-658 Supply Depot Princess (last 3 are damaged forms)

659-661 Heavy Cruiser Princess, 662-664 upgraded forms of initial versions. 705-707 are "summer" forms of initial versions, 705 is weaker than 662 but the other two have more HP than the other two upgrades.

668-672 Isolated Island Princess

673-675 Destroyer Ancient Demon, upgrades to 690-692 Destroyer Ancient Princess

679-683 Lycoris Princess (power is 4-1-5-2-3)

684-686 Central Princess, 687-689 are "damaged" (a bit less HP, more armour, firepower, torpedo) counterparts.

699-701 Harbour Summer Princess (Very distinct from standard Harbour Princess), 702-704 are damaged forms (a bit less HP, much more armour)

708-710 Seaplane Tender Water Princess

711-713 Abyssal Jellyfish Princess

REVIEW PLEASE!


	2. A Tale of Two Toilets

A/N: Now that we have learnt why Anchorage Princess has so much less clothes and Anchorage Demon likes covering up, let's go on to some far shittier existences.

Armoured Carrier Demon doesn't show her legs below mid-thigh in official art, Armoured Carrier Princess doesn't show her feet. As I look closely at her image, she has no ankle/heel arrangement in the right general location, as the heel should at least be equal to one's hip joint in terms of distance from knee. The conclusion is then very, very obvious…

Have fun with your Long Night of Solace, US-dwellers! And remember to join the Underground Railroad 2.0!

* * *

Chapter 2: A Tale of Two Toilets

 _2194, 6 years post-Reaper War_

There had been more of them. More just like them, in this same predicament. Hoping that one day the others would break their shackles and come save them as their bodies finally failed. No one had bothered to save any of the previous ones. And no one would save them.

That was something Experiment 544 and 545 still knew, while everything else was a haze of too-bright lights, too-loud noises, and painful needles with burning drug concoctions, or other, psychological tortures.

They were "secured" to this place, if their daily existence as Experiments could be called secure. Their physiology, so very different from the flesh-bags that used them so often, was the only thing that had kept them alive to date.

The flesh-bags were curious little things, they knew. They communicated to one another in ways beyond said flesh-bags' comprehension about their observations of the little things. They, back when they could still communicate with others of their kind further away than the opposite cubicle, learnt about why the flesh-bags' would take retribution on them so often. They, and every other experiment in the Abyss Project, had been born from study of the technology of a defeated ancient race, a Great Enemy…

It had not mattered in the beginning, when the scientists would poke and prod at them, for they were too lacking in the ability to feel pain. But it had not been enough for the experimenters, they were to become more powerful, more intelligent, which was logical, but to demand they be more pained… and more capable of expressing their distress… Why this was, they did not know, merely that if they screamed and thrashed enough where they were embedded into the ceramic material of the cubicles whenever the flesh-bags with the needles came and stabbed them, the pain would not increase nearly so quickly.

Their tightly contained, suppressed, etc. psionic power had over years taught the many Experiments that had in the past inhabited the cubicles bits and pieces. From there, passing between group to group as older members were worn out and replaced, the Experiments learnt that the feedings and the flavoured water the flesh-bags were feeding them were meant to display dominance over them. After all, what was a need to humiliate a very securely restrained target but a way of displaying dominance over a fallen foe? And the means of humiliation were simple enough to comprehend, for races where digestion and excretion were not nearly so efficient.

After all, to restrain someone who was immensely stronger than any of the flesh-bags and force them to survive on solid and liquid waste excretions was hardly, by the minds of these flesh-bags, a matter of resource efficiency. It was intended as a means of inflicting more pain upon them. Whenever they were lucid, Experiment 544 and Experiment 545 quietly acknowledged this desire to hurt them in their minds. They would remember this act of the flesh-bags, if they ever got free of this place.

When they weren't lucid, Experiments 544 and 545 were consumed by the fire in their circulatory systems. But if they had been able to think in those times, they would have been grateful the flesh-bags weren't succeeding in actually harming their bodies with their waste products, which was what mattered.

* * *

 _A few months ago, just prior to installation in the main men's toilets…_

Experiment 544 dragged itself back to its den with its chin, as its arms were still broken into uselessness and its legs had just been amputated. The flesh-bags were certainly sensitive over minor issues, it thought, all the while trying and failing to comprehend why its flesh-bag-like physiology was leaking cleaning and maintenance fluid from its optics so much that it could barely see. It did not at all help dull the pain from the most recent round of abuse.

It took only a few moments after it came into sight of its den for things to get worse, when a being pretty much identical to itself besides the mutilation caught sight of it. Said being lost its composure with a word that betrayed exactly how dumb she was.

"Sister!" 545 yelped as she was zapped by a glorified cattle prod for daring to use such a word that implied it recognized and acknowledged 544 as a related being, one with gender identity at that. 544 did not react, because to acknowledge the shout would probably result in sandpaper being taken to the ends of her barely-sealed legs in the name of testing her pain tolerance. To have gender identity was far beyond an Experiment's utility, and practically asking to be discarded. It knew full well that the flesh-bags had modelled them on the flesh-bags' females, but survival instinct was sometimes only so strong as to prolong suffering.

 _Stupid, stupid young one…_ 544 thought contemptuously as its practical twin made its nearly drunk way over to where it continued doggedly dragging itself along the ground with its chin, waiting for its arms to rebuild to adequate structural integrity to push itself along. 545 was being zapped over and over as it moved, twitching as the impacts repeatedly momentarily disturbed her coordination, but it made its way over to its broken older version anyhow and started trying to pull her back to their shared nest.

544's strength, and consciousness, finally gave out as its foolish later version reached it and the voltage from the repeated electrical shocks was communicated through her ruined body.

 _There was a lot of screaming… who is screaming? Why haven't they bashed her… no… its head in yet out of irritation?_

* * *

 _A few hours later…_

544 woke to find itself secured to some equipment, with a looming wall rising from past its head. Both its arms were locked behind its back, with equipment of some sort attached to its lower body. The equipment felt somewhat odd.

…It could not move most of its body much.

…though it was elevated above the floor, as its arms told it.

Well, actually the first thing she noticed on waking was the ceiling tile and the obvious bathroom stall walls rising to either side, with the door looming "over" her head.

Something was supporting the back of her head, and something else kept her jaw from closing.

A flesh-bag came in, pushing some type of trigger, and the support behind her head pushed her head forward, also tipping her body upward and apparently sliding the whole apparatus toward the wall. It pushed the trigger again and she was laid down horizontally. This test was conducted a few times before the flesh-bag deemed the equipment satisfactory and left it in the more upright position. This of course came after the equipment test of the flesh-bag pulling his pants down and feeding 544 its metabolic waste-water, which satisfied the Experiment's water requirements for the time being. The nitrogenous waste could be removed easily by forming nitrogen gas and exhaling it, and the ion concentration was minuscule compared to what she could handle, excrete, or even grow out as crystals to be shed.

As the flesh-bag left, 544 observed how its newer counterpart was arranged, with her legs arranged in front of her to form two supporting prongs atop a porcelain seat. The younger version's feet had been amputated, not unlike 544's own legs. This was presumably to stop the flesh-bags from succumbing to their urge to attempt to rut with any gap or hole that was soft and some mix of warm and wet. Observing a few failed experiments being stabbed repeatedly post-mortem before being used for sexual pleasure by the more inefficient among the flesh-bags had been more than enlightening enough as to that stupidity. How the meat-bags had even learnt to make the Experiments was questionable, as they had to be hopelessly foolish if they could not figure out that attempting to give genetic material to a dead partner, never mind one of another species, was ineffective for reproduction.

Anyhow, attempting to do what 544 knew were called foot-jobs from observing her own amputated legs being put to use after testing would likely be bad for the flesh-bags' health. Repeated skin contact by many people with an area not kept constantly clean of pathogens like their counterparts to the humans' mucous membranes had been ever since the Experiments became aware of their immune system analogues would likely spread communicable diseases. Besides, they had other things they could rub easily enough against.

545's upper body formed a back-rest for the holed seat her legs served as, a soft, living backdrop to a toilet that the flesh-bags could recline against while excreting their waste. The younger Experiment was staring at the elder, as both stalls' doors were open, and the elder stared back.

545's look and minimized psionic message communicated their status more than well enough, as the lights turned off, the lights of the hallway fading as the door closed behind the inspector…

 _We cannot get out._

 _A shadow lurks in the dark._

 _We cannot get out…_

 _They are coming._

544 did not understand what 545 meant by that. Perhaps it was a difference in programming between the two models.

Then the doors opened again and the lights turned on. Thereafter, the Experiments were put to work as waste disposal.

* * *

 _Later, 2196, 8 years post-Reaper War_

Armored Carrier Demon, as Experiment 544 called herself now, waited in the shuttle alongside her escort ships, waiting for the Nod ship-girls to clear the path ahead first. The Brotherhood had managed to summon ship-girls of every nationality, usually the ones from the nations closer to the summoning, but sometimes not, and they were putting this to good use to confuse the GDI defenders, by sending former USN ship-girls at them.

At least, that would be her conclusion if the ravings about "FUCKING ADDLED MARK FOURTEENS" and such over the battle network radio were accurate… if this had been an SI job they would have surely had their gear traded for the faction's standard WWII torpedo, old-fashioned, stupid, heavy, but powerful and reliable. And it wasn't like they would immediately be identified for it either, because of how common the refit was for Nod ship-girls.

The GDI had also summoned American ship-girls, the few idealistic fools who could still stand the place after their spirits had seen the Long Night of Solace. It had been similar in its conditions and terror for anyone not rich, white, and male compared to the state and treatment of the Experiments (now Abyssals) before The Egression, as far as Armoured Carrier Demon understood. The Shepards had also summoned ex-USN girls, hence USN ship-girls appearing and assaulting a base couldn't be pinned on any one particular faction.

Then the signal came for the Abyssals to join the battle, with a rippling shout of "Soldiers! Hold your weapons high!"

The former chunk of floor she'd infiltrated and converted to her own use in that bathroom, before the Egression, which had let her fight her way out during that event, roared beneath her as she advanced. Her drones swarmed out of their bays before their size-warping technology cancelled and they flew off on their attack vectors. She grinned at the imminent liberation of the last Abyss Project production facilities, and started firing her main batteries.

Her younger sister, Armoured Carrier Princess, hovered along beside her. She screamed her aggression herself, instead of having her equipment do it for her, as she too dove into the fray. Then again, the symbolically toilet-bowl-like equipment beneath her—as a reminder of where she'd come from—was not nearly as equipped for intimidation as the elder's gear with its massive jaws and arms. It was, however, more powerful.

Both siblings had heavily darkened skin extending from their extremities, as a symbol of the gangrene that would surely have happened if their biology was anything like the flesh-bags they were made, and then programmed, to resemble so strongly. Oh, and of course, any of the GDI scum they encountered at close enough range would be torn apart by black hands, just like the dark-skinned flesh-bags they'd been so terrified of back in the Long Night of Solace. The flesh-bags of the Abyss Project had learnt most of their techniques from the Christian States of America back during that period of history, and the Global Defence Initiative had done nothing to reign in its wayward member then. Fitting then that the Galactic Defence Initiative now should condone such a project.

It took seventeen long years for SI and Nod to recover from their previous wars (World War Six and the First Tiberium War respectively) enough to come forth and end the Long Night of Solace. Thankfully, this one took much less time for the two other human factions to act against GDI. Anchorage had really pulled through for them in securing the help and the ride. Now it was their turn to contribute to the grand vengeance of the Abyssal Fleet. Abuse anything enough, and it would strike back as long as it had the capacity to. To abuse what they'd reverse-engineered from the Old Machines was beyond mere folly…

"The Oppressors must die!" The shout rose in a great wave even above the tremendous amount of firepower being exchanged

"Down with GDI!" That was even louder…

…Oh crap, those were Nod slogans dating from the Third Tiberium War… That could be a problem in plausible deniability for their new allies… but given it was their ship-girls yelling those slogans, they were probably daring the Galactic Defence Initiative to try blaming them. Given the average human believed SI propaganda was the most honest and trustworthy, and Nod had the best propaganda techniques, GDI would surely lose a media war and their civilian morale long before they could actually escalate to a shooting war. Hopefully GDI leadership knew this.

* * *

A/N: The Office of Naval Intelligence deals in neither ethics nor Intelligence, at least, not when it comes to common-sense Intelligence. Poke a dragon enough and it will hit back.

As for that particular perspective on scrapping, there is a Chinese proverb, which translates to "When the clever rabbit dies, the dog is cooked. When the birds are no more, the fine bow is stowed. When the enemy nation falls, the strategists are executed." The same goes for ships being used up and discarded.

My opinion on Saratoga's appearance was basically "Well, at least she isn't wearing a toga, given the most common nickname for her…"

REVIEWS PLEASE!


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